


In Such Emptiness

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lovers on the Run, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A motel, a dusty road, a stolen car - Petyr and Sansa wind their way through the desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Such Emptiness

The light above her is sickly, fluorescent. Sansa’s skin is already pale and it is certainly not helped by this harsh glare. In the mirror she appears yellow, her eyes half-sunken. She looks as dead as she feels.

She had not really spoken to Petyr of her frustrations, of the myriad fears that passed through her. She suspected he knew as much, could read her like an open book. She wondered sometimes, sitting beside him in a borrowed car as they wound their way across the hollow-seeming desert, if he did not take her along on this aimless trek out of fear. She had seen too much, had helped him scrub blood from his hands, and she was still too untested. She had not yet been beaten and worn down, was liable to crack at any given moment. He could not let her out of his sight. 

She typically said nothing on those long drives, static and Spanish and mindless pop bleeding out of the radio. She suspected he didn’t want to hear any fear or self-doubt from her, though he himself talked enough. Pointing out this or that feature, bragging about some past escapade, stripping away any fragments of romanticism she might still cling to, as if it was possible to retain that when the smell of blood was still fresh in her nose.

The weapon sat always in the glove compartment. She had never seen him wear it. It was not the one used that night, out in the woods, the other man on top of her until he wasn’t—that had been tossed in the river, her bloodstained clothes burned. She didn’t ask where he got this one.

Just as Petyr didn’t ask too many questions about herself, seemingly more interested in who she was in his mind, the person he could create. However the silences between them were not awkward, as she was somewhat glad for this chance to not act, to not have to reveal more than she wished.

She didn’t ask where they were going or what the plan was. She lived life day-to-day, in this series of claustrophobic, overused rooms and open highways.

Setting the hard-bristled toothbrush aside she left the bathroom, dressed in shorts and a thin cotton tank, unremarkable clothes bought on the road.

Petyr sat in the dim light on the bed, staring at the door as if ready to pounce. At the sound of Sansa’s feet he turned and gave her that thin, nervous smile that always gave her pause. It seemed so oddly genuine, so hard to place with the man who had stood above her and lifted a lifeless body without flinching.

They shared a bed but nothing more, not yet—perhaps not ever, though it was best not to think of the future. But she did not wish to be alone, needed something to hold onto in the strange void that had become her life.

“I think we can rest,” she said, glancing to the locked and barred door as she made her way to bed, pushing back the rough comforter, the well-used sheets. All around them was still. Sometimes she wanted to question how long he felt like running, if he would simply do this until she left his side. 

“Famous last words.” He cocked an eyebrow at her but moved to join, turning out the light, sliding into bed as she did, pulling her towards him without a word. The room was not entirely dark, the light from the parking lot intruding, but it was good enough. She found a spot against his maimed chest—she never asked and he never revealed—nestled in the crock of his arm, his heartbeat in her ear and her lips near his jaw. 

The gun rested beneath the pillow, the shape familiar and oddly comforting.

She fell asleep with his fingers curling in her hair, wondering, not for the first time, if he ever truly followed her.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Morning Transgression](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286298) by [Marquise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise)




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